I resented it. No wonder it was easy for
him. "Great mistake," said Poppleton. "Too soft. Look at
this"--here he picked up a big stone and began pounding
at the gate-post--"see how easily it chips! Smashes right
off. Look at that, the whole corner knocks right off,
see!"
Beverly-Jones entered no protest. I began to see that
there is a sort of understanding, a kind of freemasonry,
among men who have summer places. One shows his things;
the other runs them down, and smashes them. This makes
the whole thing easy at once. Beverly-Jones showed his
lawn.
"Your turf is all wrong, old boy," said Poppleton. "Look!
it has no body to it. See, I can kick holes in it with
my heel. Look at that, and that! If I had on stronger
boots I could kick this lawn all to pieces."
"These geraniums along the border," said Beverly-Jones,
"are rather an experiment. They're Dutch."
"But my dear fellow," said Poppleton, "you've got them
set in wrongly. They ought to slope _from_ the sun you
know, never _to_ it. Wait a bit"--here he picked up a
spade that was lying where a gardener had been
working--"I'll throw a few out. Notice how easily they
come up. Ah, that fellow broke! They're apt to. There,
I won't bother to reset them, but tell your man to slope
them over from the sun.
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